CHAPTER 3- SMALL WORLD

Elena POV

I almost canceled the Sterling meeting twice that morning. Nadia talked me out of it multiple times before I could finish the sentence.

“You are not canceling a business meeting because you’re still thinking about how you threw wine on a stranger,” she said, mouth full of toast. “That man does not get to cost you a client too.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“You sound hungover.”

“I’m just tired. There’s a difference.” I stood in front of my closet holding two blazers like either one might solve something. “What if he tells Sterling? What if this is already a problem to my career?”

“Then any company that holds standing up for yourself against you is not one you want representing your work. Wear the navy one and go.”

Sterling’s building sat in the financial district. Glass, cold marble, a lobby designed to make you feel small before you even reached the elevator. I checked in, got a visitor badge with my name spelled almost right, and rode up rehearsing my pitch. Three pieces instead of one. A price that reflected what the work was worth, not what I could be talked down to.

A receptionist led me to a small waiting area outside a frosted-glass conference room.

“They’re just wrapping up another meeting, it won't be long,” she said.

I sat with my portfolio across my knees and tried hard not to think about the wine incident. I was mostly managing it not to. Then the glass doors opened. Voices spilled out. A few men in expensive suits, and a woman gripping a tablet. Then he appeared, my heart skipped a bit, I couldn't tell why.

I knew that voice before my eyes even caught up. Same dark suit, a different one this time, no wine on it of course. Same jaw, set like it was permanently in the middle of an argument. He was talking to someone beside him, not looking my way. For one second I let myself hope I could simply become invisible.

He didn’t walk past. His eyes landed on mine and stopped.

“You,” he said.

Flatter than I expected. Not with anger, he sounded like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“Yes. Me, small world I guess. ” I said, standing, because sitting through this felt worse than facing it upright.

“You’re here for Sterling.” He said.

“I’m here for a meeting. Apparently with you, though nobody warned me. I was told this was Sterling’s office.”

I glanced at the doors he had just come through. “Unless you followed me, which would honestly be stranger than the wine.”

That almost got a reaction out of him. Not a smile. The ghost of one, gone before it landed.

“I own a stake in Sterling,” he said. “I sit in on relevant negotiations. This happens to be one.”

“Of course it does.”

“You could have mentioned who you were meeting before you agreed to it.”

“You could have read the wall before you told me to take down my own painting.” I shifted my portfolio to the other arm. “We’re even on surprises.”

The receptionist cleared her throat, sensing tension she didn’t understand. “Ms. Martinez, they’re ready for you.” She said.

Mike didn’t move an inch.

“I’ll sit in,” he said to the receptionist.

“That’s not necessary,” I said.

“It’s my stake being discussed.”

“And it’s my painting.”

We stared at each other one beat too long. Long enough that the receptionist’s smile started to strain. Then he turned and walked back through the doors like the matter was already settled. Which, infuriatingly, it was, because my only choice was to follow him in or walk out completely, and I hadn’t come this far to walk out.

The room was exactly what I expected. Long table and city views. Five men in nearly identical suits who all looked up like I was the day’s entertainment. Mike took the head of the table without having to ask, as if the seat had been saved for him his whole life.

They walked me through their offer. Standard rate and standard timeline. Everything delivered by a man named Grayson in the flat tone of someone reading numbers off a screen he didn’t fully understand. I let him finish, then I opened my folder, pulled out their own proposal, the one they had emailed me two days ago, and turned it to face the table.

“This clause has exclusivity on secondary reproduction rights. For ten years.” I said, tapping the page.

“Too standard for a piece this size,” Grayson said.

“Except your installation budget assumes the piece appreciates over that same decade. You’re citing my last three years of sales growth to justify the price.” I looked up. “You can’t have it both ways. If the work is appreciating, locking reproduction rights for ten years suppresses its market value, and you’re undercutting your own investment. If it’s not appreciative, your offer is too high by your own math.”

The room went quiet. Grayson’s mouth opened but nothing came out. I looked at Mike. He wasn’t looking at Grayson anymore. He was looking at me, and whatever that looked like irritation on his face a moment ago had shifted into something else entirely. A man rethinking his whole strategy in real time.

“No one caught that,” he said, almost to himself.

“I caught it,” I said.